


Emerald Eyes

by Naemi



Category: NCIS
Genre: Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Other, Prompt Fic, Triggers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:05:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naemi/pseuds/Naemi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim's past haunts him in a nightmare, and Tony provides comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emerald Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jacie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jacie/gifts).



> [set within 7.03, of sorts]
> 
> Important warnings are in the end notes. However, they spoil the story.

 

“Lookit. We're stuck in a prison cell. Well done, McGee. Well. Done.”

“It's not exactly my fault,” Tim snapped, but the look in Tony's eyes as he turned around and cornered him, literally, made him swallow down any further comment.

“You had the idea. It took you forever to get the GPS data. Oh, and you didn't _have the right shoes_. What's that supposed to mean, anyway?”

Tim clenched his jaw, staring. He'd never seen his partner this angry, or at least not with such anger directed at himself, and he was smart enough not to add fuel to the fire. He was also admittedly intimidated enough for his voice to fail him, had he tried to speak.

“I'll tell you something,” Tony continued, his mouth so close to Tim's ear that his breath was a hot tickle on the younger man's neck. “We're screwed, Probie. You screwed us. And there's no way in hell Bossman can get us outta this, so . . .” He paused, pinning Tim against the wall, bodies pressed together, foreheads touching. His hazel eyes were flames of amber fire, negating the otherwise affectionate posture, and Tim suppressed a whimper of equal parts fear and surprise.

“So. You will get us out, McQueen.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me. That guard—he's been giving you looks. I bet you can easily convince him to help us.”

Tim's mouth dropped open, but his vocal chords failed to voice any vehement protest.

“Maybe you're lucky enough to get away with only a mouthful, but really, I don't care what you do, as long as you make it work.”

“That's just ridiculous.”

“Weigh it,” Tony growled. “It's either you get us out or I'll have to really fucking hurt you.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Tony slammed his fist into the wall right next to Tim's head, making him flinch with an agonized sound on his lips as a fine dust of paint and plaster rained down on him. “Last. Warning.”

“This isn't funny,” Tim squealed, his voice a full octave higher than normal. His heartbeat picked up a racing pace, palms starting to sweat, and he sensed rather than understood that Tony wasn't joking, that he was furious enough to actually take it out on him. “I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry,” he added feebly, hating how whiny he sounded.

It seemed as if Tony saw reason, for he took a step back, but the moment Tim let out a shaky breath of relief, a hard backhand hit him, the force hurling him halfway around his axis. Tony shoved him back against the wall face first, hardly giving him a chance to cushion the impact, jerking his head back hard. This time, the whimper came out clearly audible, filled with pain. Tim squeezed his eyes shut, fearing the worst.

“You might get away with sucking cock or I can fuck you right here against this wall. Your own damned choice,” Tony growled, his raspy voice revealing how dangerously close he was to snapping. Grinding his hips against Tim left no doubt as to his determination.

Tim's mind fumbled. The world had gone to hell in a blink, dragging his friend along, and there was no way to believe any of this was happening, that Tony had turned into a predator without either warning or reason. Tim must be dreaming; it was the only logical explanation, and he clung to it with all his might.

“Okay,” he said, surprised his voice was not cracking. “I'm doing it, okay? Just don't—you don't wanna hurt me. You know you don't.”

“I wouldn't be so sure about that,” Tony spat, yet a brief, heart-wrenching moment later, he let go. “I knew you'd wise up.”

Tim rested his forehead against the wall, thankful for the disappearance of physical danger. “Why?” he asked in a low voice. “I need to understand.” He heard the shuffle of Tony's feet as the man walked away, then the creaking of the plank bed as he sat down.

“Why not?”

“Is this real?”

“You think I'd threaten to rape you for real?”

“Well, you just did.”

“And you believed me.”

“You meant it.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.” This truth weighed heavy on Tim's shoulders, slowly forcing him to slide down the wall. He turned around, his legs drew up and his arms wrapped around them tightly as if the position alone could protect him. “I need to understand,” he repeated, a slight undertone of defiance in his voice.

Tony looked at him, all prior aggressiveness gone. “This is your dream, McGee. How am I supposed to know?” He spread out his arms, raising his eyebrows, the faint shadow of a smile appearing on his lips. “This is so clichéd, don't you think?”

Tim didn't answer.

“Maybe you're feeling pressured?” Tony suggested, and Tim reluctantly looked at him, the movement of his head slow as if caught in cobwebs.

“Not exactly, no.”

“Coming to terms with your past?”

“I . . .” Tim shook his head vehemently, yet doubt filled his heart. He looked around, assessing every detail of this small prison cell, from the cracking wall paint to the dusty concrete floor. “I don't know,” he said, his body trembling with a sudden, inexplicable sadness. “I might have seen this place before. I can't—it's nudging, but it won't surface.” Tim rubbed his forehead, attempting to chase away the clouds that concealed reality.

The sound of a key turning in a lock made him jump, eyes wide, heart skipping a beat.

“He's coming,” Tony said calmly, nodding towards the darkness beyond their cell. “What are you going to do?”

The lights flickered. Heavy footsteps slowly approached, echoing hollowly from the naked walls.

“I don't know.”

Another flicker. Lights out. Steps turning into stomps, mixing with keys clinking happily against one another. The whistling of a song forming a familiar melody.

“He's coming for you,” Tony's voice sounded from far away. “Hide, kiddo. Hide and pray he won't find you.”

The lights flashed up again for a brief moment, sufficient for Tim to realize he was alone. A sob formed in his throat, fear clenching his heart. “Come back,” he whispered, desperate, receiving no response.

Instead, darkness returned, crushingly tense, crawling all over Tim's skin to conquer him with sweaty-cold hands, breathing the sharp smell of whiskey and cigarettes into his face. He backed away, but the wall trapped him, thwarting escape, and then the footsteps were in the room with him, stopping.

“Where's ma boy?” a deep, slurry voice hollered, and Tim impulsively covered his ears, horror starting to choke him.

“Come on, boy, get ya ass over 'ere.”

He was six years old again, spending one of many weekends over at his aunt and uncle's. This particular night, he was hiding in the darkest corner of a cold basement room, trying to block out reality in the only way little Timothy McGee could think of: doing the tables from one to ten at the speed of light. When he made a mistake, he paused for a heartbeat, trying to locate the alcohol-cheered voice and boot-heavy footsteps, then he started over anew, positive that if only he could make it through all the tables correctly, he would get away unharmed.

“Timmy? Come to yer uncle Frank.”

The boy lost it somewhere around the fives. Fear forced tears to well in his eyes, and he couldn't help a panicked sob coming over his lips. Startled, he looked up, pressing both hands on his mouth quickly to prevent giving away his position, listening into the darkness.

 _Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud._ Approaching further.

“Where's me bonny laddie?”

 _Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud._ Stopping way too close.

Tim could smell the alcohol emanating from the figure in wide-wafting waves, as was always the case when his uncle had been out to the pub. He used to associate it with his cousin sobbing behind the locked door of his room, as well as the indistinct swoosh of something smacking down on bare skin repeatedly, and sometimes afterwards, Tim had noticed bruises on the boy, bright and purple and very intimidating.

It wasn't complicated to put two and two together, not even for a six year old.

It wasn't the first time either by now that Tim was the target of his uncle's attention. He knew what awaited him, and his little heart beat hard against his ribcage, like a bird entangled in a net flapping its wings in sheer terror.

“Got a lil' surprise for ya,” uncle Frank said gleefully, followed by a hearty chuckle.

Tim crouched deeper into the darkness, starting his tables over again, frantically. He did not realize he was rocking back and forth on his heels, or that the tears ran down his cheeks in streams. All that mattered was _one time one equals one, two times one equals two, three times_ —and then he heard boots being shucked off and a belt being unbuckled, and over all of this horror lay an old Irish drinking song, a happy whistle out of his uncle's mouth, forming the words only as a zipper went down.

 _And the drums they go with a rata ta tat and the fifes they loudly play,_ and then a strong hand pulled him by the hair, “There you are,” hauling him out of his make-shift hiding place, dragging him over the concrete floor, skinning his bare knees.

Timothy McGee was six years old, his emerald eyes wide with desperate plea, but there was no escape, no hope, only fear and pain and darkness.

He screamed and

screamed,

and

woke with a start, the horrified sound sandpapery-sore in his throat. He shot up, searching for the source of danger, but all he could spot was a sparsely furnished room, with Tony leaning against the far wall, his shadowed eyes resting on Tim.

“Bad dreams, I s'pose,” he said in a strained voice, not moving, not even blinking.

Tim let out a shaky breath, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples, rubbing away an upcoming headache.

“They say you shouldn't wake people when they're screaming, you know? If they're about to assimilate something and they're disturbed in the process, it might get worse. The problem, I mean.”

“Never heard that before.”

Tony shrugged. “It's true, I assume.” He pushed away from the wall, taking a step towards his friend, but stopped when Tim's eyes widened with the remnants of nightmare fears. His expression softened again in another blink, yet Tony knew better than to approach. He shoved his hands into his pockets, watching Tim closely. “You got talkative,” he said hesitantly after a brief moment of consideration. “It was . . . distressing.”

Tim cast down his eyes, sinking back onto the bed, huffing out his frustration at the heat rising in his face. “It was just a nightmare,” he stated as firmly as he could manage with his heart still beating in his throat and the ghosts of the past reaching for him with dank fingers.

The silence lasted long and heavy. Tim knew Tony's eyes lay on him, could feel his gaze almost piercing through him, yet he avoided looking back up or making any movement other than folding his hands in his lap. Hunched up as small as his six foot frame allowed, he sat on the edge of the bed, feeling numb all over. He had not thought of Frank in fifteen years, and the sudden return of the memory scared him more than should be possible, worsened a thousandfold by the fact that Tony, of all people, had heard him talk in his sleep and obviously give away some information that was never meant for anyone's knowledge. A familiar, yet long time forgotten, sort of nausea overcame him, manifesting in an uncontrollable shudder that shook him hard enough to chatter his teeth.

Tony cleared his throat.

“What?” Tim snapped at him, hoping his hostile tone would keep the man from saying anything that might increase his overwhelming wish to either throw up or cut his wrists, or maybe both at once.

“Whatever haunts you—”

“—is past. Long dead and buried. Literally.”

“You got friends, Tim. You got people who care. Whom you can confide in. If something torments you . . . if you need help or just someone to listen, or no matter what else—I want you to know that I'm there for you. Anytime.”

The sincere affection in Tony's voice caused Tim to look up at him, speechlessness curling his mouth into an O, and then the compassionate look he met hit him like a fist to the stomach. His whole body cramped, the feeling of misery making him retch, but luckily—God knew how—he managed not to humiliate himself as much as to vomit onto his own feet.

The attack subsided, leaving hot tears stinging the corners of his eyes, and then Tony was with him, merely a hesitant hand on his shoulder, yet the touch oddly welcome, soothing. Tim reached out for him, desperate for he did not know what, grateful for the presence of a friendly soul.

“It's okay,” Tony kept repeating, helplessly watching as his friend slowly fell apart.

When the first few words came over his lips, stuttering into a confession, it felt torturous, soul-rending, but somewhere deep inside him, six year old Timothy McGee smiled through the tears with bright emerald eyes, feeling suddenly safe.

**Author's Note:**

> [partly Alternate Reality: Dream.]
> 
>  **Warning:** Trigger: Past Child Abuse 
> 
> **A/N:** According to some sources, Sarah is about 8 years younger than Tim, thus no mention of her.  
>  My apologies for being a bad kitty.  
> Apologies also for coming up with something that I is not hinted at anywhere in canon. I just . . . you know. *sighs*
> 
> Cheered on by the amazing **Porter** and beta'd by the wonderful **Moit** , who also made sure that all characters were returned unharmed.
> 
> [Feedback is love.]


End file.
